


Paroxysm

by sinnerforhire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this isn't the stupidest thing Dean's ever done, it's sure close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paroxysm

Dean's done some pretty stupid things before. The underage waitress in Kenosha, for one. And the syphilitic stripper in Lincoln, the horny English teacher in Portland whose father-in-law happened to be the county sheriff...let's just say, the list goes on.

But this? This might be the stupidest thing Dean's ever done.

Lightning flashes, lighting up the forest in front of him. The thunder booms a second later. There's a tornado warning--half the reason Dean's traipsing through the dense forest in the dead of night in the middle of the worst storm to hit Potter County since '89--the other half being that he's just plain pissed they left without him. Never mind the part where he's hacking like a lifelong chain-smoker with emphysema. Or the part where he might have actually broken a rib from all the coughing. He doesn't have freaking pneumonia, no matter what Dad says. He would _know_ if he had pneumonia, and he doesn't. It's a bad cold. Okay, maybe the worst cold he's ever had in his 19 years on this planet, but a cold nonetheless.

God, where the fuck is this stupid lake?

More lightning, and a loud cracking followed by a muted thump. Dean shifts the flashlight to the right and sees the slightly charred corpse of a maple tree blocking the trail. Great.

He takes a step off the trail and sinks up to his ankle in the thick mud. He pulls his foot back with a loud squelch. So much for that idea. He considers the downed tree, decides to just climb over it instead. It's not that big around, but it's not lying flat on the ground; there's about a foot of clearance underneath. He bends down to set the shotgun on the ground beneath the tree and the change in position makes him cough. He tries to straighten up but dizziness overtakes him and he pitches forward. There's a sharp pain in his head, then blackness.

*~*~*~*~*

"Dad, look," Sam says, pointing. "The car's gone."

John looks at the empty parking space illuminated by the truck's headlights. Raindrops splash in the large puddle that covers half the painted boundary line. The storm's dying down, but the rain isn't letting up much. John pulls into the vacant space and digs the motel key out of his pocket. "Go inside and check if his guns are gone."

Sam nods and jumps out of the truck. He's back a minute later. "He took the sawed-off and the Glock."

John grits his teeth. _Dean, you fucking idiot._ He waits for Sam to buckle his seat belt, then throws the gearshift into reverse and points the car south to the state game lands.

"There," Sam says, indicating a dark shape on the side of the road. It's the Impala, all right.

John shakes his head. "I'm gonna kill that kid," he mutters. He parks behind the car and kills the headlights. "Grab your stuff. I'm gonna drive down the other way, see if he managed to make it all the way to the lake."

"Okay," Sam replies, opening the door. The rain is still steady but it's a little lighter than before. It's still pitch-black outside; dawn isn't for another few hours. Sam climbs down and turns on his flashlight. John watches as Sam disappears into the brush, the light bobbing up and down, illuminating the trail.

 

*~*~*~*~*

It's cold, and wet, and dark, and Sam's older brother is possibly the stupidest person in the world. Sam brushes his soaking wet hair out of his eyes (maybe Dad's right, it is time for a haircut) and steps over a thick branch. There are branches down everywhere, huge ones that must have come off hundred-year-old trees. He's been walking for almost half an hour. He hopes to God he finds Dean soon. He's pretty sure Dean didn't make it to the lake. Hell, he's pretty sure Dean wouldn't have recognized the lake even if he did, Dean's that sick.

His flashlight beam falls on a downed tree blocking the trail. As he swings the flashlight around to look for an alternate path, a glint of reflected light catches his eye. It's Dean's handgun. Thank God. Shifting the light to the left reveals a heap of wet denim and leather. Sam runs forward. "Dean!"

Dean doesn't stir. Sam drops to his knees beside him, not caring how wet the ground is. "Dean, wake up," he says, gently shaking Dean's shoulder.

Dean's eyes flutter and he coughs, wet and painful-sounding. "S'mmy?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam replies. "We've gotta get out of here. Can you get up?"

Dean groans softly and pushes himself up. His right temple is scratched and bloody and he's got the beginnings of a black eye. Sam carefully pulls Dean up to standing and slings Dean's arm over his shoulder to support him. He digs Dean's cell phone out of his pocket and dials Dad, who answers on the first ring. "I found him," says Sam.

"How is he? Where are you?"

"Not too good, and about three-quarters of the way to the lake. Trail's blocked, but I think we can get around it."

"Okay. good." Dad sounds a little relieved, but still worried. "Come this way, I'll meet up with you on the trail."

"Okay," Sam agrees. He disconnects the call and puts the phone in his own pocket. He turns his attention back to Dean. "Dad's coming. We gotta get around this tree."

"Over." Dean coughs. "Over this tree."

"Yeah." Sam shifts Dean to lean against the tree trunk. "I'll go over, then I'll help you." Sam clambers easily over the tree and leans across to take hold of Dean. He manages to haul Dean up and over the tree but has to manhandle him quite a bit to keep him from falling once he's on the other side. Even that little bit of exertion sends Dean into a paroxysm of harsh, rattling coughs. Sam can't help but notice the way Dean braces his ribs when he coughs and the deep lines of pain that are etched into his forehead and around his mouth. Dean should be in a hospital, not traipsing around the woods in the pouring rain.

Sam puts his arm around Dean and nudges him forward. "Come on, let's go."

 

*~*~*~*~*

John's relieved when the boys stumble into his line of sight, but that only lasts until he gets a good look at Dean. Dean's hunched over, one arm over Sam's shoulder, the other clutching his chest. His face is a pale, sickly gray except for the bright red flush on both cheeks and the drying blood on his forehead. He wants to be angry at Dean for being so fucking stupid but that can wait until Dean's safely in the hospital with oxygen and a shitload of antibiotics.

When Dean trips over a fallen branch, John rushes forward and grabs him before he can hit the forest floor. Dean coughs miserably and John shifts him into a more upright position. Dean slumps against him, not even trying to hold his own weight. Sam adjusts his grip on Dean and shoots John a worried look over Dean's shoulder. "He's getting worse. He can't take much more of this."

"I'm aware of that, thank you," John snaps without thinking. Sam's eyes darken but he says nothing. Dean starts coughing, a deep, rough hacking that sounds like it's tearing him apart, and the conflict is quickly forgotten. John makes an executive decision. "Carrying him's gonna be faster. Grab his legs." Sam immediately complies. Dean groans weakly. John can't tell if it's pain or embarrassment. Six of one, half dozen of the other, probably.

Fortunately, the trail slopes gently downward from this point forward, so it doesn't take them as long to get to the lake as it could have. Sam heaves a sigh of relief when he sees the truck parked atop the boat ramp. "Thank God. We're almost there, Dean."

They set Dean on his feet next to the passenger door. Dean's barely conscious and Sam struggles to keep him standing. John starts the truck, turns the heat on full blast, then slides across the bench seat and opens the door. Together they wrestle Dean onto the seat; he's dead weight in their arms. He starts coughing and John stares in horror at the bright red speckles that appear on Dean's lips. The closest hospital is in Coudersport, 40 miles away. With the rain still falling steadily, it'll take about an hour to get there. He's just got to keep Dean warm, dry, and, oh yeah, _breathing._

 

*~*~*~*~*

Sam wraps the woolen blanket around Dean's shoulders. He doesn't see what good it's going to do when Dean's clothes are soaked through, but he keeps his mouth shut. Dean shivers spastically under his hands and Sam can see his teeth chattering even though he can't hear it over the roar of the heater that's currently blowing cold air.

"Try to keep him awake," says Dad as they start down the poor excuse for a road that leads out of the park.

Sam gently taps Dean's cheek, surprised at how warm his skin still is despite spending hours in the cold rain. That can't be a good sign. "Hey, man, you still with us?"

"'f I...hafta be," Dean rasps, barely audible. He coughs wetly and Sam pushes him up as straight as he can. "Hurts."

Sam swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. "I know," he says softly. "But you can take it. You're tough, right? Tougher than me, you're always saying."

One corner of Dean's mouth turns up slightly. "Whiny...li'l bitch," he murmurs.

Sam grins. "Yeah, that's right. So you gotta show me how it's done. You can do it. Just stay awake a little longer. Keep me company. You know how it is, driving on these back roads--boring as shit."

"Not th'way...Dad's drivin'."

John chuckles, but it sounds forced. Sam appreciates the effort all the same. "Yeah, Dad's always had a lead foot. Remember that time he got pulled over in Ohio?"

Dean coughs. "I tot'ly...saved his ass."

"Yeah, that was a stroke of genius," Sam replies with a smile. Dean had come up with the idea of yanking out one of his barely loose teeth so it would bleed all over the place. He'd done it in school a couple of times to get out of language arts period. It worked like a charm, too--instead of talking his way out of a ticket, Dad had ended up talking his way out of taking Dean to the hospital. Dad took them out for ice cream that night, and although he claimed the two things weren't related, Sam had later figured out that they totally were. Dad always obeyed the speed limits in Ohio after that.

Dean coughs so hard that blood spatters on Sam's arm. "Dad!" he shouts, alarmed.

Dad doesn't look up. "Calm down, Sammy. Panicking's not gonna help your brother." He lays a hand on Dean's knee. "Hang in there, kiddo," he says quietly. "We're gonna get you help. You just gotta keep up your end of the bargain and breathe, all right?"

"'m tryin..." Dean gasps. "Can't...'t hurts."

"Shallow breaths, Dean," barks Dad, and now they're back on familiar ground. "Sam, count seconds. In on odds, out on evens. You can do this, son. Listen to your brother." He nods at Sam.

Sam takes a deep breath and starts counting. He's up to 56 when another car comes around the bend. The approaching headlights give him an opportunity to really look at Dean, and what he sees makes him shudder. Dean's lips are blue where they're not covered in dried blood and his cheeks are so red they look burned. He lays a hand on Dean's forehead; it's completely dry and practically blistering hot. Sam draws his hand back, feeling nauseous. "Dad, he's not--he can't--"

"He _will_," Dad insists, voice dangerously low. Sam falls back against the seat as Dad pushes the accelerator to the floor.

 

*~*~*~*~*

Sam could swear that an hour has passed, but when he glances at the clock he sees it's only been five minutes. He has no clue where they are, has to take it on faith that Dad knows where he's going. Dean's unconscious and fading fast. His head lolls on Sam's shoulder, his desperately weak breaths barely tickling Sam's neck. He knows Dad's pushing the truck to its limits, but he has the horrible feeling it's not going to be enough.

He sees light in the distance. They're approaching civilization, thank God. Dad eases off the accelerator, drops his speed from three digits to two. "Hold on," Sam whispers. "We're almost there. Keep fighting." He feels pressure on his shoulder; for a second he thinks Dean heard him and nodded. But Dean's body jerks and his head snaps back and Sam comes to the sickening realization that Dean's having a fucking _seizure_.

"He's seizing!" Sam slides one hand behind Dean's head and uses the other to push his upper body back against the seat. The convulsions last another 30 seconds or so and then Dean crumples sideways towards Dad. Sam pulls him back to lean against his side. "Dad, hurry," Sam gasps.

Dad drives triple the speed limit and runs every red light. Finally, after what seems like years, they pull into the hospital parking lot. Dad brings the truck to a screeching halt in front of the emergency entrance and gathers Dean into his arms without a word. He's through the sliding glass doors before Sam can even get out of the passenger seat. By the time he gets inside, Dad and Dean have disappeared.

 

*~*~*~*~*

By the time they let Sam into the ICU to see Dean, two hours have passed. The nurse, an apple-cheeked brunette about Dad's age, tells him that he'll have 15 minutes and then she's kicking them both out to get dry clothes, food and sleep. He's suddenly aware of how long it's been since he had any of those things.

They round the corner and Sam gets his first glimpse of Dean. The ventilator tube is the first thing that draws his eye. He's not surprised, not really, but it's still upsetting. Dean looks so small, so fragile beneath the wires and tubes and tape. Dean's the least fragile person Sam knows. He blinks back hot, unwelcome tears.

The nurse walks briskly into the cubicle and picks up Dean's chart. She writes down the numbers on the monitors and checks the IV line in Dean's left hand. Dad's dozing in a chair on the other side of the bed. Sam reaches out and takes Dean's hand. "Hey," he says softly, not wanting to wake Dad. "You did it, man. Hardest part's over. All you gotta do now is get better. You can handle that, right? You against a bunch of tiny little germs--that's barely a fair fight. You can totally take 'em. You just gotta fight, that's all. Kick ass and take names, just like you always do. Okay?" He squeezes Dean's hand. His skin is still so blazing hot. "They're gonna kick us out soon, but we'll be back after sunrise. Dad and I...man, we look like drowned rats. Probably smell like it too. No wonder they wanna get rid of us." Sam smiles a little, shakes his head. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. I promise."

Sam's never broken a promise, not once. He certainly doesn't intend to start now.

 

*~*~*~*~*

The first thing Dean sees is bright, pristine whiteness. He blinks once, twice, three times; it's still there, unceasing, unchanged. _Oh, shit...am I dead?_

Then he hears a high-pitched beep. And another. And voices.

"I think he's awake."

"About fucking time."

Dean turns his head towards the voices and the oxygen cannula pulls at his nostril. "Wha's go'n on?"

"You're in the hospital," says Dad. "Because you're a complete fucking idiot."

"Dad!" Sam shouts, indignant, but Dad isn't fazed.

"Well, you are. Jesus Christ, kid, you scared the shit out of us. What the hell were you thinking?"

It's coming back to him now, bits and pieces. Cold. Wet. Tree. Lightning. Fear. _Pain_.

"I'm sorry," Dean tries to say, but his throat is so raw and sore and dry that no discernible words come out. Then Sam's beside him, holding a spoonful of ice chips. Dean takes it gratefully, relishes the cold on his abused throat. He tries again. "'m sorry, Dad."

"Haven't I taught you anything? There's a line between brave and reckless and you were about five miles past it. You ever pull a stunt like this again and a tube down your throat's gonna be the _least_ of your problems, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Dean swallows another couple of ice chips, ducks his head to avoid his father's scowl.

"He said he was sorry, leave him alone," says Sam, glaring at Dad over his shoulder.

Dad's eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by the arrival of a gorgeous redhead in bright pink scrubs. She grins saucily and picks up his chart from the end of the bed. "Well, look who finally decided to join the party."

"Hey, Michelle," says Sam. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam is definitely _not_ the Winchester who's supposed to be on a first-name basis with hot nurses.

"Michelle" checks his vital signs and his IV line and smiles at him. "Looking good there, handsome. How do you feel?"

Not that great, actually, now that he thinks about it. His throat feels like someone rubbed it with sandpaper, his muscles ache, his chest feels tight and heavy and his head feels fuzzy, like there's a layer of cotton between his senses and the world. He doesn't think he can pull off that many words in a row, so he just says, "Kinda crappy."

"I'll bet," she replies as she writes on his chart. "Bacterial pneumonia's a bitch. Does your chest hurt?"

"No, just kinda tight." He's out of breath by the last word. This sucks. Maybe he is as stupid as Dad says.

She nods. "That'll last for a while, unfortunately. Respiratory therapy will help with that, but the doctor wants you to have a little more recovery time before you start on the tough stuff."

Respiratory _therapy_? Jesus Christ. He's gotta get strong enough for Dad to sign him out AMA, 'cause he's not putting up with that shit. No way.

She sets his chart back in the holder. "Anything else you want to tell me? Anything that doesn't feel right?"

"His throat hurts," says Sam before Dean's sluggish brain can process the question. "Can you get him more ice chips?"

She smiles, first at Sam and then at Dean. "Sure thing, hon. I'll be right back."

As soon as she's out of the room, Dean reaches out with his free hand and smacks Sam's knee. "Quit flirtin' with the--" Christ, it's hard to talk. "--cute nurse, you perv."

Sam's face lights up and he grins, wide and true. "Dude, she flirted with me first."

"She's usin' you...to get to me."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."


End file.
